


Alan Peace Book One: Black Hunt

by Alan Peace (FireteamZeus)



Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Alchemy, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexuality Spectrum, Fantasy, Folklore, Gen, Inspired partially by the Dresden Files, Magic, Murder, Mystery, Some Romance, Vampires, Wizards
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 17:14:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13839345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FireteamZeus/pseuds/Alan%20Peace
Summary: My name's Alan Peace. I'm just your ordinary wizard for hire, and no, I'm not joking. Laugh all you want, but when a ghoul decides your cat looks particularly tasty, a goblin steals your wallet, or something worse happens, I'll bet anything it's me or someone like me you'll come running to. Every city has one. For Edmonton it was me, part of urban Ontario has a purple haired man who's been here since the seventies, Red Deer has Golden Gwen, list continues. We’re everywhere, just like the rest of the supernatural world. Like it or not.The reason wizards (or anything supernatural for that matter) aren't common knowledge is courtesy of the Grimm Union, basically the United Nations of the magical world. One government to handle any and all large scale mystical affairs, and to protect mortals from supernatural dangers. They even have their own military slash police—the Sentinels. Personally though, I prefer the freelancer gig. It has better hours, its more fun, and you don't have to bother with rules of engagement or anything like that, so long as you don't violate the Grimm Conventions—basically the laws of magic.Alex Jones would go nuts if he found out.





	Alan Peace Book One: Black Hunt

**Author's Note:**

> Characters in this book will come from all sorts of nationalities, eras, and cultures. They are diverse in ways such as sexuality, gender, ethnicity, and political viewpoints. I try to make them as real as possible, and as a result they might say something that offends you. If so, I am sorry. The intent is not to hurt or offend anyone. The intent is to make my characters feel real. I do not hold the specific viewpoints of a given character, and this s not a political work.

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Chapter 1

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 **A** ll of last month I had been having a near suspicious amount of luck. Four jobs in two weeks—all easy, and all completed to the total satisfaction of the client. That amounted to a total of fifteen hundred dollars or so. Since I technically don't have a stable income, and since my job technically doesn't exist, the government couldn't tax it.

    So I decided to chillax, take a break, kick up my legs and enjoy a calm week in a small corner of the town of Jasper Alberta—the Noctem Hill area. It was a nice place really, a quaint corner of town with about a thousand residents and few tourists, a stark contrast to the rest of Jasper. The local café, The King Druce, had a killer breakfast and better coffee, which I was currently enjoying at an outside table.

   I took a sip from the coffee and took in the wonderful, peaceful world around me. Leaves, ranging in color from ruby red to fire orange, drifted about lazily on the wind. The cool breeze playfully ruffled my head of curly raven hair. The sky was clear and sapphire blue, matching my eyes. To the east were mighty snow capped mountains, reaching high into the heavens above.

   I sighed a sigh of pure and natural calm, at peace with everything around me. Nothing could possibly make this day anything less than perfect.

   A particularly cold gale swept over me, bypassing the cover of my knee length, navy blue leather coat, chilling me to the bone. It reminded me of a Cold Spot, one of the many indications of a haunting. I pushed any further thoughts of that type away and continued to drive no my coffee in complete and uninterrupted calm.

   I enjoyed some morning birdsong as I began to fill my head with positive thoughts. Love, peace, camaraderie, friendship. Literally anything but work and my life outside of this very moment.

   Love was what came to mind first, promoted by a wonderful redhead in a police uniform across the street, going door to door asking questions about something that couldn't be further from my problem.

   In the deck of love I seldom draw a card, and when I do it slips between my fingers within a few days. I constantly pull amazing queens, attract a few Jacks, but not once do I pull the right card. When I search the deck of love every now and then, I look not for a face card, but an ace.

   Make of that what you may.

   The café owner, Owen Black, waddled out with an empty platter in one hand and my bill in the other. He was a short man, maybe five foot six, with wispy blonde hair and a receding hairline—but he was built like a wrestler and looked like a Viking on steroids, practically bursting out of his white tee shirt and apron. He may have looked intimidating, but he was actually quite nice, and definitely a bit too talkative. He was an honest to god Scotsman too, and he sure as hell acted like it.

   I drew my wallet from my jeans, fingering out a ten dollar bill and setting it on the round table in front of me. I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes.

   “Keep ’em comin’,” I mumbled, riding a wave of pure bliss as I envisioned myself watching a sunset with that police girl across the street.

   “Aye, no problem Al.” I heard him place the mug on the tray and take the money. “Ah'll getcha the change.”

   I blew out a single laugh and waved my hand through the air lazily. “Pfft, naw. I'm good, I'm good, consider it a tip.”

   Owen wolf whistled.

   “Oh, it isn't much.” I reached for my wallet one more to double the tip, a classic Alan move. I couldn't hold onto money worth shit, and I should have learned my lesson by now.

   “A wasnae talkin’ bout tha tip,” Owen said. “Take a keek at tha’ bonnie lass o’er there.”

   I hummed in agreement and stole a second glance at her, now a mere three doors away and on my side of the street. She looked divine at this proximity, finally within my range of clear eyesight. It was simultaneously exciting and crushing to see someone like her. Her hair flowed down her shoulders like a blazing waterfall of captured sunlight, her green eyes pierced all veils, looking to be both hardened and innocent at once. Her lack of curves and scores of freckles did nothing to subtract from her angelic beauty, possibly adding to it. I'm not exactly a curves guy, so I tended to go for women most would call ‘flat’. My only issues were her height, or lack thereof (maybe five foot eight, putting her three or four inches below me), and the fact that I live an entire four hour drive away. Under other circumstances I would have chanced it with her; disregarded the inevitable, swift, painful end of our relationship, all for the illusion of love.

   I really need to do something about my romantic habits.

   “She's a looker alright,” I responded after a minute.

   Owen shook his head and chuckled. “Looker? Ya talk like a proper jobby jabber. . . an ya look like one too on second thought!”

   “I'm guessing that's not good.”

   “Oh, naw! Wouldnae jab at me only customer this morn now would—”

   I gave him a flat stare. “It means gay doesn't it?”

   Owen shrugged and grinned devilishly. “Maybe . . .”

   I frowned harshly and Owen took the cue, retreating into the safety of his shop, waddling like a frightened penguin. The urge to send a gust of wind his way or summon some weeds to trio him was almost too overwhelming to resist, but I managed it. Just when you think you know a guy . . .

   I clasped my hands behind my head and resumed my wishful daydreaming, now envisioning what it would be like to find _the one_. How would I know if I had found her? What were the exact odds of—

   “Oi, you there!” a female voice called from nearby.

   Probably not me.

   “Black haired caucasian, maybe six feet tall, sitting in the café.”

   Definitely me.

   I opened my eyes and silently groaned as I turned my attention to the woman leaning against the railing that separated the Druce from the sidewalk. It was that same police girl, a pen and paper in her hand, a determined fire in her eyes.

   “Not from here,” I stated, closing my eyes and dismissing her. “Can’t help you, sorry. Hope you have a bomb run day in the naval way ma’am.”

   “Hold on,” the police girl muttered.

   A few moments later I heard the door to the patio open. I opened my eyes, sat upright, and reached out a hand to receive my drink. I recoiled almost instantly when I saw not Owen, but—you’ll never guess—that police girl again.

   Damn she’s persistent.

   She pulled out a chair and sat down, leaning over the backrest and leering at me over the table. Those eyes were even better up close. While though the rest of my brain was searching for a way to make her go away, my romantic side got his hands on the controls once again—at a really inopportune time as per usual. I took note of her name tag. Officer Rose Prunellier. French girl eh?

   “Yes?” I inquired, resting my chin on my hand and giving her a generous dose of Alan’s CharmTM. The key is to show all but a few things with your body, eyes, and voice. Give them the true you, almost, and even let some of your very real insecurity and uncertainty show—all the while looking roguish and confident.

   It had no effect.

   Rose blew a lock of crimson hair out of her eyes and set her pad of paper on the table. Without looking up she asked, “Name?”

   “Alan Peace, but you can call me Al. i see you’re new to this job?”

   She jotted down a few notes and continued, ignoring my question.

   “Where were you from precisely six o’clock to seven o’clock PM the other night?”

   “On a Greyhound bus headed here. I’m here on vacation, but if y—”

   “What do you know about the. . .” she squinted at her notes. “Der schwarze schütze?”

   That snapped me out of it.

   I shoved Romance out of the way and began taking this seriously.

   “Why do you need to know?” I asked in a polite and neutral voice.

   Rose looked up at me with an eyebrow cocked. “You honestly don’t know?”

   “About what. The bird? Because if it’s about the bird, well, everybody’s heard about the bird. In fact, some say that the bird is the w—”

   Rose interrupted me, her tone turning harsh. “Are you going to help me or not? Because if not, then you’re wasting my time.”

   I gave my head a shake. “Sorry, I’ll try to help. I know about it. It means The Black Marksman.”

   “Anything I couldn’t just get from Google translate?”

   My face betrayed the ghost of a cocky grin. “I know far more than that. But what exactly do you need to know?”

   “Just give me the basics and I’ll see if it’s relevant” she offered. “I really can’t say why or what, but I assure you, it’s urgent.”

   That’s what got me. Something was up, and it might just be my kind of something. Something . . . out of the ordinary.

   “Well,” I said, sighing as I mourned the potential loss of my first vacation in over a year. “The Black Marksman is from the German musical Der Freischütz. He’s portrayed as either the devil or the devil’s servant, but either way he’s bad news. In German folklore, a Freischütz, freeshooter, is one who, through a deal with the devil, has been given a certain number of magic bullets that are fated to hit whatever the marksman wishes them to hit. They’re usually musket rounds, but . . .” I waved the notion away. “Nevermind, it’s not important. Did you get what you needed?”

   Rose hummed and looked over her notes. “Maybe.” She scanned her notes and made a few adjustments to a previous page. “So you’re a folklorist or something, I’m assuming?”

   I shrugged. “More or less. I don’t know too much about the Middle European stuff, so I don’t totally have my head wrapped around . . . any of it really.”

   Rose looked up. “Nonetheless, I might need more of your . . .” She made a face that looked like she’d bitten into a lemon. “Expertise. Where can I contact you—in case I need to?”

 

    **T** he Blackstone Motel wasn’t exactly a palace, but unlike every other establishment of its kind, it had a decent price—a mere seventy dollars a night. It wasn’t exactly what one would call a homey place, but from my experience home is a place with a door that may or may not have heat. The Blackstone had heat, so it was a-okay in my book.

   I arrived at the motel by foot just as the sun set. Contrary to what I had thought, the day had been uneventful since my chat with the police girl earlier. I’d already knocked an item off my list: reaching the summit of a mountain. When I had reached the top, it felt like nothing else I had ever experienced, a victory unlike any other—which says a lot when one hunts rogue vampires and other such things for a living; but the ride up was terrifying. Most wizards aren’t all too enthusiastic about throwing our lives into the hands of a machine, as magic and technology don’t usually get along too well. Anything more advanced than a bolt action rifle finds _some_ outlandish excuse to break around me sooner or later, which has been a mixed blessing. On one hand, I was never exposed to the soul eating cancer of social media. On the other, I had trouble doing something so simple as operating a computer or watching the evening news. I managed it otherwise, using devices that are easier to fix, reading the papers, using an honest to goodness typewriter when I felt a stroke of creativity.

   The motel itself was just five hundred square feet total. Right through the door was the living room/bedroom, equipped with a single bed, a mini fridge, a lamp, and a chest of drawers. Through a door on the far wall was the washroom and shower, towels not included.. My suitcase leaned against the wall, a small pile of clothes and books laying in a disorderly heap around it.

   I tossed my coat at the suitcase and changed into a pair of white linen drawstring waisted pants and didn’t bother with a shirt—although if there was even a sliver of a chance that someone might see me, I would have. My body isn’t half bad, due to consistent daily exercise, but I was uncomfortable with someone seeing me even partially undressed, or seeing someone else like that.

   I was anticipating a quiet and restful night. I grabbed a half finished paperback copy of ‘To Hell and Back’ by Audie Murphy, and flicked off the lights as I went. Pulling the warm covers over my exhausted, freezing body was such a relaxing sensation, as good as a million dollar massage as far as I was concerned. My stomach growled and I realized that I had forgotten to eat, as so often happened. Though I wasn’t that hungry, I wasn’t going anywhere, so I figured I could hold out until the morning.

   I opened the book to the page I’d dog-eared and set it on the bed beside me. I began to shape a small bit of magic in my mind, just enough for a bit of light. A split second later it was ready. I released the energy, using my arm and a word to channel the magic.

   “Valo,” I muttered, releasing the spell.

   There was a dull white flash and thrumming sound. A fist sized ball of bluish light took shape a few feet above me. A satisfied smile spread over my face, even though I’d done this countless times before. It was the first spell I’d cast, as did most wizards. A spell to shine a light in the dark. In fact, the first thing a wizard does in a dark place is shine a little light. It was practically instintinct for us to do so, for the benefit of ourselves or others in need.

   I continued reading my book in the bluish light until I lost interest, then closing it and tossing it back in the general vicinity of my bag. I extinguished the light and rolled onto my side. It wasn’t that the book wasn’t interesting, it was just that I could no longer see the point in reading it. My mind had drifted. The swirling gale of thought emerged once more as I drifted off to sleep.

   My head swam with plans for the coming week, backed by an acoustic guitar cover of a Swedish power metal song I liked. After about three runs of the track I had a somewhat coherent plan that I’d probably forget before sunrise. I briefly considered getting involved with the freeshooter thing from earlier, but then decided against it. If I hadn’t been contacted by now, odds are it was nothing.

   Another thought replaced the previous group, triggered by the image of that police girl. Why do it alone? Why didn’t I actively try to find a partner, for life or work? My love life had essentially been like this: I find a girl that’s my type, we talk, maybe a date occurs, and cut it off after first base or earlier (depending on when I told them _the thing_ ). I didn’t even _try_ to find the right one, and I’d only gone on a total of nine dates with across four different women. As for a work partner, I had a lot of people who could easily take that spot.

   My friend Church, who was ironically a huge Joe Ledger fan, was clued in to the supernatural world and skilled enough in dealing with any supernatural issues to cover my back when things got dicey; in fact, he was covering my post for me as I took my vacation in Jasper. I was also at the right level of skill and clout to request an apprentice. That would be a good investment in the long term—but in the short term it would be an annoyance, and I’d probably end up with a few gray hairs before I turned thirty.

   The thought of an apprentice drew my mind along a tangent that got me thinking about my mentor.

   Smo, short for Sôhkâtisiw Mamâhtâwisiw Okiskinwahamâkêw, had been my mentor and essentially my father after I’d left the foster care system. He knew magic that made the Grand Sentines, the five most powerful wizards employed by the Union, considered masters of their particular form of magic, look like second grade illusionists. He taught me almost everything I knew, nurtured my talent as a storm caller, and treated me as his own son. His teachings gave me a new view of the world, a respect for the land, and a better understanding of everything around me. I owed a great deal to that man. I wondered what he was up to now. Maybe he’d taken on another apprentice. I didn’t know, but knowing him he was up to _something_. It was never ‘nothing’ with him.

   After an unknown amount of time drifting along mental tangents my stinging, my tired eyes closed at last, soon followed by the sweet release of sleep.

 

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_New chapters released on an irregular basis._

_Chapters in online version will not exactly match the physical version, which I plan to finish and publish by 2019._


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